


those traces left behind

by SomeEnchantedEve



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Creepy, F/M, Masturbation, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeEnchantedEve/pseuds/SomeEnchantedEve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://mockyrfears.livejournal.com/2421.html">Game of Thrones Kink Meme</a>. </p><p>Prompt was 'Ned/Catelyn, in Petyr's brothel - with Petyr watching.'</p><p>"And if she is fool enough to think that he would have locked doors with no way to see inside, in his own business, in especially a business of this…variety…then he shall certainly not be discourteous enough as to disillusion her. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	those traces left behind

**Author's Note:**

> Creepy Petyr is creepy. XD
> 
> Expanded very slightly from the posting in the community.

A moment, she asked, and a moment he allowed, for who is he to refuse Catelyn Tully? 

And if she is fool enough to think that he would have locked doors with no way to see inside, in his own business, in especially a business of this…variety…then he shall certainly not be discourteous enough as to disillusion her. Stark may be too honorable to ask for a bedchamber but he is not too honorable to send his wife leagues away without a goodbye, it seems. He could laugh, but the sound is caught in his throat and it would be bitter anyway, Eddard Stark is just a man after all, it seems, for all that he holds himself and those around him to god-like standards. 

His mouth on hers, Stark lifts her onto the desk, hands sliding familiarly along her thighs to push up her skirts. Petyr brushes the tip of his tongue to his lips at the sight of her bare skin, still pale and smooth as those days in Riverrun when she would rise from her bath, unmindful of his eyes even then, she never seems to see him. His cock twitches at the thought, even as he seethes at the idea, at the sight, of Ned Stark putting his hands on her, of her _letting_ him, her face flushed with arousal. 

Cat is shameless and wanton, the way she appears to him in his dreams, spreading her legs to let Stark step between them, reaching for the laces of his breeches but she fumbles, unable to manage through the thick bandages that wrap her wounds. He helps her, placing her hands on his back and unlacing himself before pressing her back onto the desk, her red hair spread like a bloodstain across the surface as she wraps a leg around his hip. 

Petyr imagines his desk will smell of her when they’ve finished, and it is that thought that leads him to take himself in hand; he can practically breathe the scent of her hair and sweat and arousal now. His hips instinctively buck at Cat’s sharp moan, and he can almost pretend it is not at Stark’s hand slipping back up her thigh, under her gown to stroke her. 

Cat’s head is tilted back on the desk, her eyes closed and her lips parted slightly as her breath comes rapidly, and it is his eyes and Stark’s eyes both on her face, wanting, it is he and Stark both who let out a groan at the sight of her. Petyr curses himself, _stay quiet, do you wish to ruin everything,_ bad enough that this thing is not dead as it is, a constant thorn, his scars a constant reminder of what he has done to possess this woman and she is still not his. 

Her hands lie uselessly on Stark’s back as he moves to slide into her; Petyr can see the tips of her fingers twitch in her desire to touch. _She is helpless, he could kill her if he wished it,_ he thinks almost idly, and the thought sends a white-hot shot of arousal through him like an arrow, Catelyn beneath him, his hand pressing to her white throat, fear and not condescending pity in those lovely eyes of hers ( _please don’t kill him, he’s just a boy and it would grieve me to see him die_ ). He would not truly hurt her, would not need to, but he would leave a bruise and she would know then that he could, know his power, know he is not some plaything from Riverrun, and Petyr bites back a moan at the thought (he remembers this time, the need for silence). 

Of course the noble Eddard Stark would never dream such a thing, Petyr thinks bitterly, Stark’s hand ghosts along the curve of her neck and down to cup her breast, his lips tracing her skin along the neckline of her gown, his breath harsh against her, and it is a waste, she is wasted on this northman with his lofty ideals of honor and his determination to join his brother in an early grave, with war-worn hands not fit, not made for her skin. 

He could burst in on them now, now would be the ideal moment as he sees Catelyn’s thigh tremble, her leg tighten around him, and he throbs at the thought of Stark’s face, of Cat spread vulnerable for him across the desk, as whorish as any girl in his establishment. 

But no, he cannot risk such boldness, not yet, he knows to not tip his cards to blatantly and the moment is lost anyway when Cat gasps against the side of Stark’s neck and he feels his own seed pool warmly in his hand at the sound. Stark is soon to follow but Petyr feels an absurd pleasure that he is last, _best get used to it, Lord Eddard._

Cat smiles at her husband almost coyly when he presses his lips to her jaw before gently pulling back and helping her sit back up, she thinks they have a secret and Petyr could laugh at the foolish oblivion of them, they don’t understand that there are no secrets in King’s Landing. 

That there are eyes everywhere.


End file.
